


Hope Found

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-16
Updated: 2010-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:01:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo and Boromir talk in Rivendell, the night before the council.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope Found

Frodo had not felt such easy contentment since he had left Hobbiton. Breathing in the aromatic steam that curled up from the many platters on the long table, his stomach let out a satisfying growl. It had been far too long since he had desired food and even longer since food had been available in such generous quantities. That this great feast had been called in his honor seemed absurd. Gandalf had said that it was no small matter for him to have come so far and through so many perils still bearing the Ring, but he had done nothing heroic. That is, unless he counted his pitiful attempt to stand against the wraith that had stabbed him. If anyone deserved a feast in his name, it was Strider the Ranger, without whom they would surely have perished – or worse. Frodo glanced around the table, hoping to see him, as he wished to personally thank him, but he was not in attendance.

He smiled in anticipation of sinking his fork into the sliced tender bird soaked in a rich red wine sauce. He wished to savor that first moment when his tongue bloomed with taste. He took several sips of the golden beverage in his goblet, and warmth filled his stomach. He breathed deeply, grateful to feel whole and strong again. His shoulder was still somewhat numb, but gone was that deep bone-chilling pain that had reached for his heart and filled his world with shadows.

Sam touched his arm. "Are you comfortable, sir?"

Frodo nodded, still focused on his food. "Yes, Sam. I feel quite good." He began to eat, and for several moments his attention was wholly on his plate. The bird was tender, more so than he had imagined, and the sauce filled his mouth with a taste richer than anything he had eaten in the Shire. For years, Bilbo had spoken in awe of Elrond's table, and now Frodo was experiencing it for himself. He sighed. Dear old Bilbo! Frodo had held out hope that perhaps the old hobbit was here in Rivendell, but he had seen no sign of him.

"Elves…so many…" Sam blinked, dazed. His food was untouched. A strong pang of guilt clutched Frodo. Sam had barely left his bedside in the days since he had been brought to Rivendell. This was truly the first time Sam had let down his guard enough to take in Rivendell's ambiance. "The Gaffer will never believe it, no sir."

Frodo took a moment's break from his food to meet Sam's eyes. "And nobody deserves to see them more, Sam. Nobody."

Sam reddened and muttered under his breath before turning back to his plate.

Frodo startled when he caught a pair of gray eyes fixed on him from farther down the table. How odd! A Man in Rivendell! The man turned quickly away when Frodo looked at him. Perhaps he was like Strider, an Elf friend and Ranger of the wild. There was so much Frodo did not understand about the Big People. Before Bree, Gandalf had been the only Big Person he had dealt with.

This Man across the table wore rich clothes of velvet and fur, and his hands were seasoned, as if they had wielded a sword more than a time or two. The Man met his glance again and Frodo offered him an amicable smile.

Soon Frodo became involved in conversation with the Dwarf seated to his right and he nearly forgot about the Man with the gray eyes. The Dwarf introduced himself as Gloin, and Frodo immediately recognized him as being the very Gloin who had journeyed with Bilbo to the Lonely Mountain.

As soon as it became clear that the meal was at last over and guests trickled away from the table, Frodo slipped from his chair, intending to introduce himself to the Man with the gray eyes. Unfortunately, the cushions that had been placed on the chair to give him height scattered everywhere, and by the time he, Sam, and Gloin had gathered them again, the Man had left.

 

***

Late in the night, Frodo woke, clutching his sheets to his chest. In the bright moonlight, his knuckles glowed white and his heart thudded in his ears. He must have had a terrible nightmare, but he could not recall anything but black shadows that pulled at him, yanking him toward some bottomless abyss.

He breathed in the crisp air that came in from the tall arched windows. He was safe. His wound had been healed, the Ring was safe, *he* was safe, and his friends were safe.

Best of all, he had found Bilbo just after the feast, wrapped in blankets, listening to the Elvish music that moved both of their hearts. They had talked until Frodo became hoarse.

Frodo stepped out of bed, dressing quickly, hoping nobody would question him. He did not wish to have anyone fuss over him now, especially trembling as he was, when all he needed was a sight of the stars and a breath of fresh air. He pulled his cloak around him and walked through the open corridors. In fresh air, the black nightmare could no longer reach him with icy claws.

He stumbled onto a terrace – and halted, nearly tripping over his feet. Apparently the Man from the feast had the same idea as he. Frodo paused, mouth slightly ajar, unsure whether to speak or to turn around and flee before he was noticed.

"Good evening," The Man from the feast looked up at him and smiled. Well, now it was too late to flee. "Frodo – that is your name, is it not?"

"Yes," Frodo managed.

"A Halfling," the Man said under his breath. "So, it is true."

"May I ask your name?" Frodo asked. "For you seem to know mine, and that puts me at a disadvantage." He smiled, and he was rewarded by a warm return smile.

"Please…" The Man gestured to a chair beside him. "Join me. That is, unless you have elsewhere you must be."

"Thank you." The chair was high, built for the fair folk, and Frodo was forced to hop up onto it in a most undignified manner. Once settled, his feet dangled into air, and he felt distressingly small compared to his companion.

"I am Boromir," the Man said. "From the city of Minas Tirith, far to the south. My father is the steward of Gondor." He said the last with a proud lilt to his voice.

"Boromir…" Frodo murmured. "And I am Frodo Baggins at your service."

"Are you the Halfling brought to Rivendell with grave injury?" Boromir asked, and when Frodo nodded, he continued. "From whence did you receive such a fell wound?"

Frodo's shoulder throbbed as if in answer, and he tensed.

"Does speaking of it cause you discomfort?" Boromir asked softly, his gray eyes dark with concern.

"No," Frodo said immediately. He looked down. "Er…yes…well, I would rather not."

"Then we shall not speak of it," Boromir said.

"Thank you." Frodo looked at Boromir in gratitude.

Boromir's eyes brightened with curiosity. "In Gondor, Halflings are but legend. From whence do you come? Where lies your country?"

"Far to the north, more than a fortnight's journey by foot or by pony," Frodo said, smiling in fond recollection of his land. In Hobbiton the biggest problem might be whether rain might spoil one of the parties Frodo had given for Bilbo. Or whether it was proper manners to give a mathom to a close relative. Frodo's heart filled with fierce love for the Shire and its inhabitants, no matter how foolish at times. He had said once to Gandalf that he had sometimes wished the Shire could be shaken up, but now he was only glad beyond glad that he had gotten the Ring safely away from it.

"It must be a peaceful realm indeed," Boromir said.

"Yes," Frodo said. "We have been fortunate in that we're so tucked away that most of the world remains unaware of Hobbits."

"Hobbits?" Boromir looked puzzled.

"It is what we call ourselves." Frodo smiled. "Hobbits."

"Tell me more of your Shire," Boromir said.

So Frodo spoke of his life in Hobbiton. At first he did not know quite where to begin. His life seemed so pastoral compared to the life of fighting this Man had surely faced all his life. Still, Boromir was an eager listener, and he was often interrupted by questions.

"Do your kind truly build homes into the sides of hills?"

"And you were never trained with a sword?"

"Do all Shire folk learn to read Elvish?"

"Six meals a day?"

Frankly, Frodo was somewhat ashamed that he spent much of the conversation describing the intricacies of breakfast and second breakfast and elevensies and lunch and tea and dinner and after-dinner pipe-weed. As they talked, the air grew chillier and a pink glow bloomed to the East. They paused in comfortable silence.

Frodo let out a content sigh. "It is wondrous to see snow upon the mountain tops."

"You do not have mountains in the Shire?" Boromir asked.

"No, just rolling hills of green."

"Ah, yes. Where you build your houses. And where you eat five meals-"

"Six."

"Six meals a day and smoke pipe-weed after dinner."

"That is correct," Frodo said, nodding his approval. "And do you long for your city, Captain Boromir?"

Boromir's countenance became grim. "My city is but a fortress and looks out to--"

"Do not say more," Frodo interrupted, and his shoulder throbbed. He closed his eyes for just a moment.

"Are you well, Frodo?" Boromir asked in concern.

Frodo nodded and opened his eyes at last. "I am sorry. I came here to escape everyone fussing over me."

They laughed together.

"Let us try this again," Frodo said. "Tell me, Boromir of Gondor, about your city."

"Minas Tirith is a fortress…" He glanced at Frodo. "Against darkness. We have never had the light-hearted merriment that you describe in your youth."

Frodo's cheeks heated with shame – and then pity. Surely as a boy Boromir would have loved chasing rabbits through apple orchards and pilfering mushrooms and, oh, how unfortunate that he could not have been born a Hobbit.

"You need not be ashamed," Boromir said. "Few have endured …such evil as you have…and lived."

"Your people are descended from Numenor, am I correct?" Frodo asked, wanting desperately to divert the attention from his injury.

"It is but a distant thread. Our people now live in a twilight in which we remember higher matters but now focus on the more important matters of war and valor." He stroked the hilt of his sword. "Darkness and despair, it is the coming tide." He gazed into the distance. "And yet we have no strength to wield against—" He looked apologetically toward Frodo, but Frodo did not notice.

Frodo had bowed his head at the weight of the Man's words, and the Ring felt like a cold, dead weight against his chest. The council to be held the next day would seal his fate – and the fate of them all. Boromir was wrong – Frodo believed strongly that there was still strength to wield – though from whence, he did not know.

 

END


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